


Untitled (18 December '03)

by Hope



Series: Untitled Faculty ficlets [4]
Category: The Faculty
Genre: AU, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-18
Updated: 2003-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/16960.html</p></blockquote>





	Untitled (18 December '03)

Casey pretends to sleep for the first ninety-something miles, head lolling uncomfortably on the seatbelt bracket but shoulders still tense and curled in on himself. Pretending to sleep leads to half-sleep without him noticing, the white-gold burn of the rising sun flickering through suburban trees (and then the even rhythm of the power line supports) on the inside of his eyelids and the anxious jitter of his thoughts providing his subconscious with enough fodder to create something that seems utterly bizarre (and yet makes total sense): he's sleeping, in a car, driving away and being splashed unpredictably with the stabbing pain of fire that licks over his face and down into his throat and from there to his innards.

See, if he keeps his eyes closed now, then when he opens them the landscape blurring past the low-shutter-speed car window will be unfamiliar, nothing to hook barbs of indecision into his skin, nothing to sew doubt into him with thick cord and sharp needles.

They're ultimately heading west, so after the first couple of hours the sun unavoidably dashing itself against Casey's face it settles at their back. They plotted it out on the map, their route a long, lazy curve across the country like the dip in an electricity line between posts that feels less lazy in the pit of Casey's stomach. He wonders how long it will take them to reach Colorado and he can say _I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto_, but that also holds a kind of ridiculous dread because he can hear the click-clack of the turn signal and the friction between Zeke's skin and his teeshirt as he sweeps the wheel round with easy, self-assured movements: Casey hasn't brought himself to turn his head yet and they're stopping for lunch, at a diner balanced precariously on the border between Ohio and Indiana.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/16960.html


End file.
